The Dragon's Killers
by Musingsage
Summary: 10 years after a disastrous environmental event the world finally revives, but a new threat zeros in on the Nations wrecking a new trail of havoc. Even the dead leave a lasting impact.


A/N: The plot line for this fic has been running about my head for the last year, slowly defining itself and improving. I'd explain the back story, but that's why I wrote this prologue, though it would take less work to just write it all out, I like the prologue better. Be warned characters WILL die, though there won't be anything too graphic.

Pairings: (These are all important) FrUK, Spamano, Gerita, SuFin, DenNor, PolLiet, HongIce, NethelCan, AusHun, past!PruHun, past!Giripan, past!RoChu, (I may change change Hong Kong's pairing around.)

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for the plot.

Special thanks to two of my friends K and S who have graciously agreed to read this behemoth through for me bit by bit.

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July 14th, Bastille Day, a day once celebrated in France, and generally ignored elsewhere. No nation paid much more attention to it, other than France, who usually held an interesting party. Those parties, were not like the gaudy and loud ones America loved, but more formal, though no less interesting. Bastille day, a day that marked the over throw of tyranny. Bastille Day, a day once considered normal.

Few remembered it as a happy day anymore, for Canada the day now marked the last time he saw America alive.

Ten years on, horrible nightmares still caught up with him; still left him terrified to sleep; still sent him into a spiraling depression.

Bastille Day, the day the Yellow Stone Supervolcano erupted and launched Nuclear Winter. For years before hand earthquakes troubled America, leaving him gasping for breath during meetings, or sometimes unconscious. When Mt. St. Helen erupted, he nearly fell into a coma. Neither Canada nor England left his side after that; once their bosses forced the situation they took turns staying with him. Oh, Canada bitterly remembered how helpless he felt in face of it all, how all he could do was make America comfortable.

Around other Nations, America put on a brave face, pretending not to be bed ridden as July approached. Each time Canada or England hovered over him, attempting to help, but America always demanded they leave him alone. Stubborn pride kept him going, forced him on long walks with others just to prove he was better than he was; they all knew everyone saw through the act, but respected his wishes. Russia showed greater concern than anticipated, but Canada never found out why.

Alone with either brother, America collapsed on legs no longer able to support him. Pain killers helped only so far, and the closer to July it got, the less they helped.

In the end, nothing made America comfortable.

Then suddenly he actually began feeling better and stopped pretending. To Canada's delight, the pinched look in America's face faded. Both he and England stopped hovering.

On that fateful day, America had gotten on a plane to Seattle; his boss had sent him to test his new endurance. The last time Canada had seen him, America had waved from the stair case, smiling brightly.

No one heard from the plane again, much less America. In the blink of an eye he lost his twin brother, the pain had reverberated down the twin bond and left Canada struggling to breath. Somewhere along the way he lost consciousness, when he woke, he found the bond shredded. Only the faintest remnants remained to him.

Years passed before Canada bothered to attend a World Conference again, before he felt capable of facing the other Nations. Their condolences, repeated, drove a spike deeper into Canada's heart. An empty chair sat at the high table, America's chair, with his name plate and little flag to the left. At some point someone covered the chair in a black cloth. Nearly forty other chairs received similar treatment, for no one had the heart to remove them. Whatever a nation felt for the missing or dead no longer mattered, each mourned the loss of their companions, friends and enemies—their kin.

Ten years after that horrible day, Canada leaned against his country house's back fence, gazing absently over the fields and trees. Ten wretched years passed since the onset of Nuclear Winter. A different world emerged as the earth slowly escaped it, some Nations even had a bounce back in their steps. No such change happened to Canada.

Over the painful years, the tattered bond nagged at him, urging him westward, eastward, southward or even northward depending on the day. In recent days it grew stronger, more prevalent until it constantly distracted him. When he spoke to his Uncle Inuit, the older, and wiser, man suggested he go in search of the feeling. The feeling suggested that America still lived, somewhere; somehow he survived the crash, eruption, ensuing troubles inside his government and emergence to two new countries from his western states.

Though, when Canada left his Uncle's house in Bathurst Inlet, the old man warned him that if he left in search of Alfred, he risked missing America. His Uncle told him that a darkness lurked on the horizon; one that threatened to engulf them all in death. The quest, he told him, would cost a high price, but one that the other nations would pay for in the end, that any chance of good coming from it passed by many years ago. At the same time, Uncle Inuit admitted if Canada chose to abandon his quest, he might never learn what truly happened to his twin.

Of course, as Canada remembered, the future was notoriously difficult to predict. More than once Uncle Inuit passed on warnings of death and destruction, but none even panned out.

And to finally know what happened to his brother all those years ago…

To have the answer beckoning for him to follow…

"I'm coming Al, wait up," Canada whispered, his mind set.

The next morning he began his search.

~(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)~

This very afternoon they struck the first blow. Before the evening arrived, Austria would be dead; at long last the bastard would die. If things went well, the death would be as painful as the toxin allowed, hopefully a fiery death, with it feeling like fire consumed his intestines so very slowly. By the grace of God, it would a very painful death, and sadly Austria would never see his killers face, or know their name. May the uncertainty haunt him in whatever lay beyond the grave, at least until the assassin joined him in death. Naturally once the assassin served her purpose, she became useless, though she would require very careful disposal.

How sweet imminent vengeance tasted! Under other circumstances, he would like to stab Austria until no one recognized his body, but this would do. Oh, yes it would do. After all, why risk discovery when a sweet plan lay in place, ready for careful execution?

Those fools knew nothing, soon they would understand. Oh, how much they had to learn, all of which he would teach them in time. All in good time they would learn.

Not far off, a slim gray clad figure gray figure leapt out of a first story window, landing in a soundless tumble. With more grace than a cat, they rose to their feet and darted off. Mere minutes later it would all begin in earnest, pity that once the blaze came to a sputtering death, he would have to kill that gray clad figure too.

Each and every fool would die, just like those eliminated before them.

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A/N: Not sure if the last bit counts as foreshadowing for jumping right into the plot line. 'till next time! Also, reviews and constructive criticism is most appreciated.


End file.
